There's a First Time (for everything)
by msgenevieve447
Summary: The first time she kisses him, it's in Neverland. The second time she kisses him, it's in New York. The third time she kisses him, it's in Storybrooke. Every single time, it means something. By the fourth time, it means everything. (This story was requested by and written for Scribblecat and her latest piece of art "Good Form")


The first time he touches her, it's the skim of his roughened fingertips over the back of her hand, a lingering touch that is as unnecessary as it is unsettling.

"There's a good girl."

There's a spark there, flint flaring over the dry tinder of her distrust, and it makes her blood quicken in a way she hasn't felt in a long time. Then the cuff tightens around her wrist, and she knows she doesn't have the luxury of feeling anything that isn't going to get her back to her son. She grits her teeth and climbs the beanstalk and finds the compass, all the while trying to forget that every time he touches her, the last thing she feels like being is a good girl.

The first time she meets him after leaving him with Anton, she wants the ground to swallow her up.

She's spent three days telling herself that what she'd done hadn't really been a betrayal, not in any serious way. They'd only spent a few hours together, it had been an alliance of convenience, a means to an end, right? Then he looks at her with darkly glittering eyes, his body stiff with a quiet anger. "You should have thought of that before you left me on top of that beanstalk."

"You would have done the same."

He takes three very deliberate, slow steps towards her, only stopping when his face is inches from hers, the gnarled bars the only thing separating them. His eyes never leave hers, and it's all she can do not to take a step backwards. When he speaks, his tone is soft, almost disappointed. Disappointed in _her_, she realises with a shock.

"Actually, _no_."

His eyes lock with hers, letting her see the truth of him, the wounded man beneath the anger, and it's too late to make amends, too late to take it back, and of all the things she expected to feel at this moment, she would have never have guessed it would be shame.

The first time in a long time, someone comes back to her, _for_ her.

He comes back for her. Captain Hook, a storybook pirate with a thirst for revenge and a never-ending supply of double entendre and a healthy dose of ego all twisted up with a reckless lack of self-worth. He offers himself and his beloved ship, laying them at her feet to do with as she needs, and this should be unbelievable and ridiculous but it's not. He's the only thing that makes any sense right now, and that alone should be a danger sign but quite frankly, she doesn't give a damn.

She doesn't know it yet, but it won't be the last time he comes back for her.

The first time she kisses him, it's in Neverland.

The second time she kisses him, it's in New York.

The third time she kisses him, it's in Storybrooke.

Every single time, it means something.

By the fourth time, it means _everything_.

The first time they're alone on the Jolly Roger, he points out the constellations.

She'd come here to talk to him - amongst other things - about Henry's apparent decision to become a teenaged dirtbag, complete with a teenaged dirtbag attitude. As always seems to happen lately, they've ended up sharing a drink and swapping barbs and war stories until the air of intimacy makes her throat feel tight and her skin hot and scratchy. Such conversations are fine in broad daylight in Granny's or at the station, but tonight they're sitting on the deck of his ship in the darkness, their backs against the cabin wall, legs stretched out, an almost empty bottle of rum and two shot glasses the only thing keeping her thigh from touching his.

The night is warm. His heavy coat has been discarded, and she can feel the heat of him through the thin cloth of his black shirt every time he gestures towards the inky sky, his shoulder brushing against hers. There's a static buzz humming through her blood, and it's not because of the rum. Two weeks ago, they'd shared a brief but heated kiss in the midst of a ferocious argument about something she can no longer remember, and he'd been carefully avoiding her ever since. It seems he's still making good on his promise to step back and give her space to breathe, and she is growing mighty tired of it. "How the hell did you learn our constellations so quickly?"

He taps the side of his nose and gives her a secretive smile. "I'm a quick learner, love."

She tilts her head back, the stars swimming faintly above her, and knows there's no way she'll be able to drive home, at least not for a few hours. She can't say she cares about that right now. "Jack of all trades," she murmurs, almost to herself, and practically feels the quizzical glance he gives her.

"Come again?"

Turning her head, she smiles at him. "It's just an expression," she offers, wondering if he's ready to learn the delights of a good dictionary or, better still, a thesaurus. She's pretty sure David owns both. "It's when someone is good at lots of different things."

His mouth twitches. "Are you actually admitting you're impressed by me, Swan?"

She puffs out a derisive breath. "In your dreams, Jones."

His eyes darken, hidden emotional depths shifting and realigning, and she rues her impulsive jibe. _It's not as though he needs any more ammunition_, she thinks, but then he moves, twisting his body until his mouth is at her ear, his breath warm on her skin. "You're _many_ things in my dreams, darling." She closes her eyes, her fingertips clawing into the smooth wooden deck as his lips brush a soft trail of heat and sensation along her jaw. "Shall I tell you about them?"

Her heart is hammering - more like a freaking drum solo – and there are two ways that this can go, but she's no longer interested in the way that would have her leaving here tonight. "Tempting, but I'm more of your visual kind of girl," she tells him without opening her eyes. Unclenching her left hand, she slides it along the hard length of his thigh, smiling at the shudder that goes through him at her touch, the way his muscles flex beneath her palm as though she's bewitched them into life. "Why don't you show me?"

Two seconds later, when he kisses her - finally, _finally_ - she's still smiling.

For the first time in a long time, she lets her heart take a leap of faith, taking her body along for the ride.

Somehow they make it below deck to his quarters, but it's a near thing. The buttons of her blouse are long gone, and she suspects his vest may have walked the gangplank, but the notion of one of Storybrooke's inhabitants disturbing them finally propels them to their feet, staggering across the deck in a drunken dance of need, his mouth on her throat, his hand on her breast, her fingers digging into his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

Maybe they should be taking their time, but it's as though their bodies have snapped into fast-forward as soon as his mouth covered hers in that first kiss, a kiss that left her panting and breathless, her hands fisting in the soft leather of his vest.

He breathes her name now, a soft sigh in the stillness, then the door of his cabin is kicked shut behind them and she's suddenly standing alone, her head trying to catch up with her body. He's lighting candles with a shaky hand, she realises, and a sudden wave of longing washes over her, tightening her throat and making her feel things she has no idea she's ready to feel. "Hey, remember me?"

He tosses the lighter (a rare concession to modern times) carelessly onto his desk, and closes the distance between them with two loping strides. He touches her face, cupping her cheek with his right hand, the cool metal of his hook brushing against her hip, his lips curving in a rueful smile. "I'm not the one with the memory issues, love."

"That was hardly my fault," she protests mildly, but then he's slipping her shirt off her shoulders and his mouth is hot on her skin, and she no longer cares about semantics.

He loses the hook ("next time", he promises her with a lascivious smile that makes her stomach clench), quickly followed by his shirt, and the expression on his face when she unhooks her simple cotton bra is a mental picture that will stay with her for a long time.

"Oh, Emma, love-" Whatever else he is going to say is lost as he gathers her into his arms, his mouth hard and fierce on hers, his tongue curling around hers in a heated dance, tasting of the rum they'd shared and something else, a dark spiciness that has haunted her thoughts since Neverland. His skin is hot wherever it touches hers, the crisp hair on his chest teasing her breasts, tightening her nipples and making her shift restlessly against him. Not enough skin, too many clothes, and she's tired of him being a gentleman. Her hands drop to the front of his trousers, and she swears she hears him stop breathing. Tilting back her head to meet his gaze, she palms the hard heat of him through the thin leather, watching as his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his skin as he arches into her touch, a tight muscle twitching in his jaw. "Holy fuck, Swan-"

Things move pretty quickly after that.

Their discarded boots thud loudly onto the wooden floor. Her jeans land somewhere near his trousers, and she doesn't have time to slide her underwear down her legs before he's kissing her belly, then her thigh, then his mouth is between her legs, hot and slick and tormenting and she barely has time to dig her nails into his scalp before she's coming, a fast-rising tide of pleasure crashing over her, leaving her breathless and twisting on the rough sheets, a sob stuck in the back of her throat.

"You alright there, Swan?" In another life, maybe she would have thought his smile was a smug one, but she sees his shell-shocked expression, and knows he's having trouble believing this is real, that she is here with him. So she simply kisses him, tasting musk and rum and a hunger that calls to her very bones. He kisses her back, deep and slow and lazy, the silky brush of his erection teasing her thigh, his hand on her breast, and she has the hazy thought that if he's trying to give her a moment to catch her breath, it's totally not working.

When he finally lifts his head, there is an expression of unutterable tenderness on his face, and she almost wants to hide her face against his shoulder, but he doesn't let her, holding her gaze with his as he moves above her, the rigid length of his erection finding the tender ache between her thighs. She hears herself whisper _now_ and _please_, sees his throat work as he swallows hard and then - finally, finally - feels the slow, thick slide of flesh and heat as he pushes himself into her.

_Oh, God._

Echoing her thoughts, he curses softly, making the harsh words sound like a prayer. He's holding himself unnaturally still, tension radiating from his whole body. "Emma-"

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls his mouth down to hers, the truth of her heart finally spilling from her lips to his. "I want this. I want _you_. Don't be gentle. Not this time."

Heat blazes darkly in his eyes, and she suspects her words have just sent Gentleman Jones on his way and invited Captain Hook to have his wicked way with her. A few seconds later, she's a hundred percent certain, because she feels as though she's being thoroughly _pillaged_, his hand and his mouth and tongue her undoing, the feel of him inside her turning her bones to water and heating her blood and she can't think, can't speak. There is only the thick slide of him buried deep inside her, the rub of his chest against her breasts, his mouth on her throat, teeth biting and scraping and as the pulse of sensation pulls and tightens deep in her belly, she wants more, wants him beneath her, watching her as she takes everything he has to offer her.

He lets her roll them on the narrow bed, she's sure of it, just as he's let her lead so many other times, then he's on his back, gazing up at her from beneath hooded lids, red kiss-swollen lips parted on his harsh breathing. "I like a forceful woman," he murmurs unsteadily, his hook-free arm sliding up her thigh to curl around her hip, his other hand sliding down his own stomach to where he's buried inside her, his fingertips seeking and finding with an accuracy that has her gasping and arching her spine. "But perhaps you'll be so kind as to let me take care of _you_ first, darling."

She wants to say something, but his fingers are tormenting her even as the heavy thrust of his cock drags and pulls at the tender flesh inside, and she feels like a string on a bow, being drawn tighter and tighter, the sensation pulsing between her legs, growing thicker and heavier, nerves sparking down the backs of her legs and the tips of her breasts and she can't, she can't, she just _can't_ -

She comes harder than she ever thought possible (it's the second time tonight, she just doesn't-) and his name - his real name - tears from her throat as she shudders above him, straining and pushing, her fingernails digging into his thighs, his solid flesh an anchor as she goes down, down, down.

"There's a good girl."

She hears the words over the muted buzzing in her ears, her eyes flying open at their familiarity, and she wonders if she's imagined them. He's sitting up now (God, she can feel him twitching inside her, hard and full and aching for her) pulling her closer, close enough for her to see the grey flecks in his bright blue eyes. "You're bloody beautiful when you come, love."

She closes the space between then, touching her lips to his. "Your turn," she whispers, licking her tongue along his full bottom lip, and the rough groan that shudders through his chest sends an echo through her own body. He bends his head to her breast, his mouth hot on her nipple. She puts her hands on his shoulders and begins to move, dancing her hips against his in an increasing urgent rhythm, shuddering at the answering nip of his teeth over her nipple.

He's cursing under his breath (pirate, after all) and his hair is sticking up everywhere, corded muscles in his shoulders and chest straining, his hand tightening on her hip, his body arching beneath hers, trying to climb inside her skin, his mouth taking hers in a kiss that is no longer graceful but messy and desperate and hungry and she takes everything he's offering her, pushing him higher and higher, then pushing him a little more, harder and faster and then he's falling, falling against her and into her.

Her name is little more than a ragged groan when he comes, bucking against her, pulsing deep inside her, heat spilling from his body to hers. She tightens her arms around him, trailing her fingers down the length of his sweat-dampened back until he finally buries his face in the crook of her neck, his chest heaving. Still entangled, they slump backwards onto his narrow bed. She presses a languid kiss to his throat, tasting the salt on his skin beneath her tongue, tasting the soft sigh that rumbles up from his chest. His mouth is warm on her temple, his long fingers sliding through her tousled hair, his chest rising and falling in time with her own, and the thought of moving away from him seems all too complicated. Instead, she closes her eyes, entwining one leg with his as she rests her head on his shoulder. His arm tightens around her, pulling her closer and, for the first time in a long time, the idea of falling asleep in someone's arms doesn't fill her with sharp edged anxiety.

Her last thought before oblivion takes her is that he's beautiful when he comes, too.

The first time in fourteen years that Emma Swan stays the whole night, it's aboard a pirate ship.

She cracks open an eyelid, thinking vaguely that even her eyelashes feel heavy and exhausted. It's early, the room hazy with that weird grey stillness that always comes just before dawn, and she is cocooned in the warmth of both antique bed linen and someone else's body heat. She closes her eyes and waits for the familiar feeling of regret and panicked 'how soon can I get the hell out of here?' to come over her, but it doesn't arrive.

He's still asleep, his soft rhythmic breathing teasing the back of her neck. Lying behind her, his hand tangled with hers, his body pressed against hers from head to toe, one lean thigh pushed between her legs. Spooning her, for God's sake. She should feel smothered, but instead she feels - she struggles for the right word here, because it's been so fucking long since she trusted someone enough to spend the whole night in their bed – she feels, well, she simply feels good.

She feels _safe_.

The thought should be enough to freak her out on a global scale, because seriously? A pirate - with whom she has just spent the night having mind-blowing sex, thanks very much - makes her feel safe. She again waits for the familiar morning-after panic to set in. Again, nothing happens, and she burrows deeper into the soft warmth surrounding her.

She's hovering in the hazy no-man's land between sleep and waking when the brush of a stubbled chin against the nape of her neck sends a flurry of goosebumps dancing down her spine. "Good morning, Sheriff." His voice is raspy with sleep and enough to curl her toes with those three words alone.

"Right back at you, Jones," she mumbles lazily as she stretches against him, enjoying the feel of the rough hairs on his thighs teasing her skin. Burrowing her head further into the surprisingly plush pillow, she closes her eyes again and inhales the lingering scent of him and her and _them_ (sex and booze and sweat), mingled with a sharp citrus tang she recognises as the soap Granny puts in all her guest bathrooms. She smiles into the pillow, wondering if she'd find a stolen cache of Granny's soaps in her host's personal effects if she did a room search. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Why?" His stubble rasps against the back of her neck again, and this time the sensation goes straight to her nipples, making them tighten with indecent haste. "Do you have somewhere else to be?"

She shakes her head, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip at the feel of his growing erection pressing against the curve of her ass. Desire clenches like a fist between her legs, making her squeeze her thighs together. _Jesus_. "Definitely not."

His hand is sliding beneath the bedclothes now, cupping her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple before skimming down her belly. "Good," he murmurs, then his mouth is hot on her throat, his teeth sinking into her flesh in a tender bite that has her arching back into his arms. She opens her mouth to speak, but his hand is between her legs, his long fingers delving and sliding and finding her warm and wet and waiting for him, just him, and there is nothing she needs to say. Not right now.

Twisting in his embrace, she finds his mouth with hers, curling her hand around the heavy thrust of his erection, his thick groan of pleasure tasting like nothing else she's ever found. It's been a very long time since she trusted a man enough to fall asleep in his arms, and even longer since she stayed around long enough to make love in dawn's first light.

But there's a first time for everything.


End file.
